


A day in the kitchen

by PhryneFicathon, polstar2505



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Cooking, F/M, Families of Choice, Post-Season/Series 3, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-05 23:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16820869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/polstar2505/pseuds/polstar2505
Summary: Mr Butler spends the day in the kitchen, reflecting on love, families of choice, and the ways in which they take care of one another.





	A day in the kitchen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deedeeinfj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/gifts).



> The prompt for this was Ruth Etting singing ‘Button Up Your Overcoat’ (1929), with its refrain ‘take good care of yourself, you belong to me’. I thought of the myriad ways in which Miss Fisher’s family of choice take care of one another.

They’re lingering in the entrance hall. She’s buttoning up his overcoat. He has hold of his hat, but he hands it to her with a smile. He doesn’t smile very often, the inspector, but I’ve seen him smile more these last few months than ever before. She kisses him swiftly and laughs as she wipes her lipstick off his mouth, before putting his hat on just the way she likes. 

Some men look good in hats, Aurelia. I’ve never thought myself one of them.

They’re not quite in first flush of youth as you and I were, my dear, but I think that’s all the nicer. They’re good for one another. Perhaps they have grown into that. We too were always demonstrative in little ways, weren’t we? Sneaking kisses in your mother’s parlour when she went to make the tea. Granted, people are more demonstrative these days. The inspector is getting a little less restrained, more comfortable, here at Wardlow, which is not to say he would not be mortified if he’d known I’d seen him pressing Miss Fisher against the stairway wall the other day, her leg hooked around his and a glimpse of bare skin where he was running his hand up her thigh. I had intended to straighten up the parlour, but I discreetly stepped back into the dining room. A good butler knows when to blend into the china cabinet.

That reminds me, I must remember to polish that thing. I think Miss Jane might have splashed some soup on there when doing an impression of Esther Ralston over dinner last night, and failed to tell me. It’s smudged. 

Of course you and I were never blessed, dear heart. But then again we had lots of young children in our houses didn’t we? In and out of the kitchen as you and I prepared dinner for their parents, keeping them occupied with nursery fizz or lemonade. Some parents are just uninterested. I did think Miss Fisher might have bitten off more than she could chew when she took in Miss Jane, but what I didn’t know then was Miss Fisher’s capacity to turn her hand to anything. Last week, Aurelia, she was judging a toy rifle competition between Miss Jane and those two red raggers in the back garden! Heaven only knows what the neighbours think. At least she made them use toy rifles and didn’t break out the real arsenal, impressive though it is. Inspector Robinson came home during the game and proceeded to win, much to Bert’s disgust and Jane’s delight. Nevertheless, they all crowded happy and laughing around my table for a cup of tea and some home-made fudge. None of that imported stuff. Once is enough, Aurelia. I have no wish to clamber into any more fountains.

I thought living with a spinster would be quiet and easy. What a fool I was! Yet I am having the time of my life – well, the best time since you, my love. It’s good to have an appreciative family to care for, even if it’s an unusual one, and I have money than I can budget for, despite the troubles in America. There are a few other gentlemen I meet up with – gentlemen’s gentlemen, and butlers like me. And there are the pictures, starring the lovely Miss Marion Davies, for times I want a diversion. But I am happy to come home to the Esplanade and to my warm kitchen. I only wish you were still here to share it. 

Take this oxtail soup recipe, for example. Monsieur Escoffier could not improve on it, written here in your own hand. 

Maybe that’s why I’m talking to you so much today. I have your recipe papers on the table, held in place by a crate of peaches.

But then, we always did talk when we cooked together and so what is more normal than talking to you when I cut the carrots? The inspector brought them in, slightly embarrassed as he grew them. But they are fine carrots and will make a good accompaniment to tonight’s dinner. Miss Fisher and the inspector have invited with Dr Macmillan and her new friend, a tutor at the university, to dine with them. Yes, dear, a woman. Like your sister and her – well, there is nothing new under the sun, whatever Dorothy’s Father Grogan likes to think. Even Mrs Stanley has talked about inviting them to her next party and I know you understand quite what a startling development that is. Perhaps Mary slipped some absinthe into the flummery. I know Bert managed to procure some.

After the soup, I am serving Côtes de Porc à la Flamande. That _is_ one of Monsieur Escoffier’s. Miss Fisher brought the recipe back from the Savoy when she returned a few months ago. 

I have to say, it’s nice to have her back. Dorothy is quite happy, especially now Miss Fisher is home. Married life is suiting her, I think, but a young lady still needs a mother’s guidance and heaven knows, Aurelia (and I am sure you do know, being that you’re there), Miss Fisher has provided Dorothy with a great deal of good guidance, better than her own mother’s, and of course there is Dr Macmillan to advise too. I’m sure Miss Fisher prepared Dorothy for being a wife better than your mother did you. I’m not sure I approve of her choice of literature, though. Mrs Stopes’ book may be frank, but it is more practical to a young woman than Erotica of the Far East. I dust the latter and – well – the illustrations are certainly indecent. I can’t help it if the pages fall open: Miss Fisher had left it lying around. I am not sure why – to dare the inspector to arrest her, perhaps? She certainly invited him to bring his darbys home the other day. From the way he blushed, it wasn’t about her speeding ticket.

Young Hugh came by the other day. Picked up a tin of biscuits and Dorothy made him take an apple too. At least if he insists on having lunch from the pie cart, he can have something healthy with it, she said. He needs to take good care of himself, as Miss Etting sings on the wireless. I know the inspector has had words. Hugh has taken up cycling, of all things, with the inspector! Boxing is a fine sport for a working man, but cycling is probably safer, as long as Miss Fisher isn’t on the roads. He has responsibilities now that he is a married man.

Dorothy is expecting, you see, dear. I keep imagining a little baby in a police constable’s uniform, and the face of Hugh. Quite woke up from a dream of that the other night – had to have a small glass of brandy to recover myself. 

I can hear you laughing. 

Quite how that pregnancy happened, I don’t know, Aurelia, with the poor constable being as innocent as he is. He went quite red when he saw what Dot was mending the other day. One of Miss Fisher’s French fripperies, it was, a beautiful thing. Champagne silk, with a lace trim. I have to confess, my dear, it reminded me of the night gown in your trousseau. I know that wasn’t silk, but it felt like that under my eager hands.

That reminds me, I must chill a bottle of champagne. 

When they all get home, they will be hungry and thirsty, and that’s where I come in. 

There’s nothing like family, at the end of the day.


End file.
